Think Clean
by Jabberwockette
Summary: Galex bonding over a couple loads of laundry. Friendship and laughter with a healthy dose of flirting, a good snog, and... we'll see. Rating going up now, because they have dirty minds. Still no plot. None planned, but were you really looking for any?
1. Chapter 1

"Luigi's, Guv?"

Gene looked up from the stack of papers in front of him - the stack she was pretty sure he hadn't actually been reading for the last ten minutes.

"Mmm. Not tonight. I've got to get through these reports. And then I've got a few errands to run." He seemed to have more to say, but he didn't, instead looking away and making a show of straightening the pile of papers. "Keep an eye on the Tosser Twins for me tonight, eh? Don't let them terrorize the old Italian git too much. That's my job."

Right then, conversation over, it seemed. He obviously didn't want to talk about it.

She smiled. "See you tomorrow." She turned to go, her hand on the door.

"Hey, Bols…"

Knew it. There was something else. She could read him like a book. "Guv?"

She recognized that sheepish look. He was tapping his pen on the papers and not meeting her eyes.

"Just a… uh… personal question…"

Oh, this should be good, she thought. Strength, Alex.

"Yes?"

"What laundry do you use?"

She blinked. OK, that was unexpected.

"Um… there's a laundrette around the corner from my flat, why? Planning to stage a raid on dirty knickers?"

She shouldn't have said it, she knew, but she just couldn't help herself. He was too easy a target sometimes. God, this place was rubbing off on her.

His eyes narrowed. "Not tonight, you cheeky mare. I need to do a few loads."

"That's remarkably… _domestic_ of you, Guv."

"Yeah, I, uh, usually have a cleaning lady in a couple days a week, you know, Mrs. Williams from custodial." He started to fidget again, leaning back in his chair. "Good woman, her husband passed away a few years back, she's happy to make a little extra every week." He leaned back in to the desk, resting his head on one hand and looked up at her with a slight pout. "I'm not 'ome much, so it keeps the dust off the floors. She takes in me laundry too. I mean, not all of it, you know, the suits and ties go to the dry cleaner, but she does the shirts and…"

She watched him in silence, her eyebrow arching higher, biting back an amused smile as he became self-aware of his babbling and his voice trailed off.

"And?"

"She went out o' town for a few weeks. Up to visit her brother in Leeds or some such. And I'm out of clean socks."

"I hear loafers and no socks are the going trend right now, Guv," she teased.

"Sure, if I want to look like a twat."

"I was thinking more _Miami Vice_."

Gene gave her a withering look that clearly said he hadn't a clue what she was on about.

"Hrm. Maybe it's a little early for that. Sorry, don't mind me."

"It's a constant struggle not to, believe me."

"But in the meantime, you've got a sock emergency."

"Yeah, Mrs. Williams won't be back until next week. It's just a couple loads, thought I'd do it meself instead of sending it out like I did last time she was away. It's either this or buy new ones, and I hate the shoppin' more."

"The Gene Genie matching his socks and folding. There's a scary thought."

"Yeah, well, don't let it get out, will you? Next thing Ray'll be asking me to do his, and I'm not 'aving his dirty shorts rubbin' against mine in the same load."

She laughed, which earned a rare full smile from him. He started to pour himself a drink. Later, when she would play back her next words in her mind, she never could pin down exactly what made her say it. She was sure about one thing, though, it was entirely his fault. Him and that damned smile.

"How about mine?"

He fumbled the bottle, whiskey sloshing onto the desk. "How about your what?"

"I mean… " She took a deep breath and started again. "Would you like some company? My laundry never seems like quite enough for a full load. We could share machines. I have detergent and all that, I'm guessing you don't?"

If she'd looked close enough, she might have seen a thought-bubble pop up above his head with the vivid mental picture of skimpy lace knickers tangling with men's briefs in warm, soapy water. She might also have seen his hand shook slightly. His voice, though, was perfectly steady and gave away nothing as he poured again.

"Yeah, OK, then. You can show me how to work the bastard machine, it's been a while."

He slugged back the drink.

"Great. It's a date, then. Meet me there in an hour. We'll fondle each other's dirty knickers." _Oh my God. Did I just say that out loud?_

Gene choked on his whiskey. Apparently, she had indeed. This was getting ridiculous. She felt a furious blush coming on.

"Only if I get to fondle them _in situ_, Bols." Points to Gene for the excellent recovery.

"Latin, Gene? Be still my heart."

"I save it for special occasions." He winked over his glass. "And best make it two hours, I have to run home first."

* * *

The first thing she thought, when he came through the door carrying a service-issue duffle slung over his shoulder, was that she'd never seen him in jeans before. She'd seen him drunk off his ass, covered in blood and asleep at all hours of the day and night everywhere from his office to his car to her own couch and floor, but aside from the Edgehampton vault - and that was a special circumstance, thankyouverymuch - she'd always seen him in suit pants and a dress shirt, more often than not with a tie.

And here he was, stalking towards her in jeans and a fleecy pullover with the zipper at the neck left open, thick gold chain visible. And the boots, of course. As he got closer, she also noticed that spikes of wet hair were sticking out at odd angles. He'd obviously taken a shower when he went home. His chin and neck bore a noticeable five-o-clock shadow. A quick shower, then.

_Well, well. I think this is what is commonly referred to as "ruggedly handsome." Jeans __really do _**_excellent_**_ things for his legs._

There were a few others in the place. Gene was typically oblivious as he made his way toward her, but it didn't escape her that two cute 20-somethings were clocking him like a magnet as he passed, their approving eyes on his backside. Not without reason, she noted.

She shook her head and mentally smacked herself. That way lay madness, and she had enough crazy going on in there, thank you.

_Just don't go there, Alex_._ No way. You are _**not**_ checking out Gene Hunt's arse. His very fit, tightly denim-wrapped… _

Gene dropped the duffle on the nearby sorting table and ran a hand through his wet hair once before turning to face her and stuffing both hands into his pockets.

"Alright then, Bolly?" She snapped back to reality at his voice. She had almost certainly been staring.

"Um. What do you think, whites first?"

"Whatever you say, you're the boss here." He upended the duffle onto the table while she loaded her whites into a machine. He threw his in after her, she walked him through the settings, dumped in soap, closed the lid and the machine started to fill. Two more loads went into adjacent machines, and Gene set them running.

"Simple as that, eh? I'm paying that old bird too much."

"She handles your dirty briefs, Gene. You can't possibly be paying her enough."

They settled into chairs near the sorting table.

"Mind if I read?" She pulled out her book. _The Clan of the Cave Bear_. It had just come out the year before, and Alex remembered her mother reading it not long before her death. It had been making the rounds of the WPCs in the department, and when she saw it on the bestseller rack, her curiosity had gotten the better of her.

Gene pulled out a hip flask and lit up. "Not if you don't mind if I take a nap." He put his feet up on another chair and took a swig, then held the flask out to her in silent offer. She smiled and shook her head. He took a long drag and another drink, leaned back and closed his eyes.

"I hope you realize, Bolly, it's not every bird I let help me get a load off."

"In your dreams, Gene."

"Damn right."


	2. Chapter 2

"So, Gene."

They had been sitting in companionable silence for about ten minutes, but she couldn't get into the book this evening. Something was compelling her to keep sneaking glances up at Gene's lounging form. He looked impossibly comfortable, stretched out between the two plastic chairs, legs crossed, dozing lightly.

When he didn't answer, she took the opportunity to study him for a moment. He looked younger like this, dressed casually and napping. It suited him. A tuft of now-dry hair had fallen over his forehead, and she noticed, not for the first time, his impossibly long eyelashes. The whole effect was to make him look incongruously boyish and… she couldn't believe she was using this word, but… innocent. Charming, in fact. His face was relaxed and his breathing even, yet she sensed that he wasn't really asleep, even though he hadn't responded to her.

"Gene."

"Hmmm?"

"You awake?"

He opened one eye and looked at her. "It would seem so. Those loads aren't done yet, are they?"

"No." She found herself fixated on his long lashes, which fluttered… _delicately? really? how have I never noticed that before?_ as he opened his eyes completely and looked over at her sleepily. He didn't say anything, waiting for her to continue.

She realized she'd been staring again, and looked away. "I just wondered if you wanted to talk."

"'Bout what?"

"Anything."

"Hmmm. Can we talk about your bra size?"

_So much for innocent. _"Almost anything."

"How badly d'you think City'll bust United next week?"

She sighed. "I honestly couldn't say, sorry."

He stretched a little and laced his fingers behind his head. "You daft bint. We talk nearly every day. You're my D.I. We go for lunch, and we talk some more. Come on now, do _you_ have anything to talk about? Preferably not work-related. I'm off the clock tonight."

She smiled. She honestly had no idea what was possessing her to try and make idle conversation. Maybe she _did _have a bit of a compulsion to talk too much. "Well, I did invite you to my laundrette. I'm not being a very good hostess if I sit here and read."

He snorted. "All right then, Bolly." He swung his legs off the chair and sat up, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his chin in his hands, and fixing his piercing gaze on her completely. "No current work, we can't talk about your bra size, and you don't know a thing about football, but you want to talk. Fine. Tell me a story."

That drew a real laugh. "A story? What, like my most embarrassing moment or something?"

His eyes sparkled mischievously and he quirked a sly grin. "Anything. You've got the floor and my full attention. Tell me about… the most fun you've ever had with your clothes on." She rolled her eyes but was still smiling. "OK, then, what's the strangest case you ever had before you came to CID? Come on, story time with Bolly Knickers and the Gene Genie. You first, then me."

He waggled his eyebrows and offered her his flask again. As she slid her chair closer and took it from him this time, she felt something flutter in her chest at this final step in his transformation._ Disarming, that's the word. _He wasn't saying or doing anything he wouldn't have while making small talk after hours in Luigi's, but here, where he was completely out of the CID element and totally relaxed… she found she was completely enchanted, despite herself.

The whiskey went down in the best possible way, with a good burn. "Hmm, strangest case. That would have to be…" Actually, she thought, it would have to be Sam Tyler. She immediately decided this was not the time to bring up Tyler. Gene was, dare she say it, in a cheerful mood and actually enjoyable to be around at the moment. No need to spoil it for tonight.

"… it would have to be the guy I once talked down from jumping who was distraught because he'd been told he couldn't legally marry his car."

"Pardonez-what?"

"He was a mechapheliac."

"In English, you posh fruitcake?"

"An objectum-sexual, someone who forms romantic and often sexual attractions to inanimate objects. In his case, a 1978 MGB which he called 'Jenny.'"

"Dear God. You are not serious!"

"Oh yes. He was devastated, because he'd just been denied a marriage license. Although, it was a little more complicated than that." She settled in with another mouthful of whiskey. "At the time, he was most concerned that I understand his affair had been a one-time mistake."

"If I say I don't follow you, it would be like saying Chris Skelton will never be Prime Minister. Pass that 'ere, I can see I'm going to need it." He beckoned for her to pass the flask back and he took a large drink.

"Well, when he'd been denied the marriage license, he'd been unable to face his dear Jenny. Instead, he sought the comfort of his neighbour's Mini Cooper, on which he'd had an unrequited crush for years before finding his true love, and… one thing led to another. He was terribly wracked with guilt."

Gene sputtered and coughed as he tried to swallow, and finally a full-on laugh escaped. It was a lovely sound that she had rarely heard. It made her a little tingly. Or perhaps that was just the whiskey. _Please, let it be the whiskey._

"Things were not helped," she continued, now in full-on storytelling mode, "by the fact that his neighbor caught him in the act and called the cops. He'd spent the night in a cell, and when he was cut loose the next morning, he headed to the roof of his building, intent on ending it all. That's when I was called in."

Gene was nearly choking with laughter now. "Sweet Jesus, Bolly. You should've just let 'im jump, it might've been kinder to the poor sod to let him off 'imself! How in hell did you talk him down?"

By this time, Alex was laughing, too, despite herself. "I told him," she straightened up and pulled her best dead-serious professional face, "that I was certain if he just talked to 'Jenny' that she would forgive him. Especially if their love was true, and if his indiscretion was a one-time thing brought on by the sheer desperation of the situation. Also, that she surely would understand that the inherent animacy prejudices of the legal system which were responsible for denying them the right to marry were not his fault. I convinced him he should live to fight the system."

She snatched the flask back from him and held it up in mock salute before downing another mouthful.

Gene was still laughing. "Christ, Bols, you're good."

"Not that good," she sighed, with a sad smile. "He was found dead a week later, behind the wheel of his beloved. Suicide."

"Oh, wait, let me guess…"

"Auto-erotic asphixiation," they said in unison, before both collapsing in laughter again, Alex clinging to his arm for support.

They were drawing the notice of others - Alex saw a kindly-looking older woman smiling their way, and the two girls who had taken notice of Gene earlier were looking their direction and whispering behind their hands. She realized that these people obviously thought they were a couple by the way they were carrying on, and the tingling from earlier made its way up the back of her neck. She left her hand resting on his arm.

Gene recovered first, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. "Only so much you can do, Bols. When they want to go…"

"Oh, we're horrible. Laughing at the poor man's pain."

"Oh, please, you… you… soft, sissy _girl_. He was a complete bloody nutter, destined for the looney bin."

"Now Gene, with proper counseling and medication…"

"I mean, I love the Quattro, but I draw the line at stickin' me todger up the tailpipe!"

Alex punched his arm and collapsed against him in laughter again. "All right, then, your turn."

"Did I ever tell you about the time I had to dress up as a sodding squirrel to break into me own office?"

_"What?"_

"S'truth. For one night, I was the best piece of tail in the GMC."

She settled back with a smile on her face. "Go on then. Time for the Gene Genie to tell me a story."


	3. Chapter 3

An hour later, Gene's hip flask was quite empty, and the two were comfortably sitting next to each other on the floor, backs to a washing machine, watching their clothes tumble around and around in three dryers.

"He _didn't_ …. he threw up on her?" Poor Chris. He certainly had come a long way since 1973. She hated herself a little for it, but she was laughing. Of course, that was Gene's fault – there were very nearly tears running down his face at the memory, and he was goading on her giggle fit.

"He did. By his own admission. Swear on me own Mam."

It took them a moment to compose themselves again, and she looked over her shoulder at him. "I'm rather enjoying myself this evening, Gene. We should do this more often."

"Yeah." He caught her eye, and the look he gave her at that moment made her catch her breath. It was gone just as suddenly.

"Yeah, if you say so, Bolly. Sittin' on the floor of a self-serve laundry watchin' clothes dry - helluva way to spend an evening in the company of a good-lookin' woman."

"You know what I mean. It's good to see you relaxed, Gene." She patted a denim-clad leg.

"It's just my usual idea of an evening in such company traditionally involves a few less people around, and whole lot fewer items of clothing. And more alcohol. God 'elp me, I must be gettin' past it."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "Oh, hush, you. You're not even close to 'past it.' And don't tell me that when you swaggered in here tonight, you didn't notice those two young blondes who were checking you out."

"I do not 'swagger'."

A pause.

"Young blondes?"

"Don't look! Oh, you are such a child sometimes. To my left… _other left_… by the windows. They were _definitely_ eyeing up your arse as you walked past them."

"Were they now?"

Gene had gotten to his feet and was now leaning on the machine they had been sitting against, trying to look nonchalant as he scanned the room.

"You are so predictable."

"Am not. I'm deeply mysterious."

"If you say so."

Alex took a moment to note that from her still-seated vantage point on the floor, this new pose gave her another great view of his backside. _Thank God he doesn't wear jeans to the office._ The tingling settled firmly in her stomach. _Shit. _She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

At that, the first dryer buzzed, and she stood as well, stretching. Gene, she noticed, had made eye-contact with one of the blondes. Alex watched in fascination as it took him less than 10 seconds to draw the girl into his gaze so thoroughly - and from across the room - that he might have been the only other thing in existence. The poor creature now caught in his unwavering smoulder looked distinctly like a small animal in the headlights of car. It was an act worthy of Mesmer, she thought.

She was glad she wasn't on the receiving end right then. Given where her thoughts had been wandering all evening, she couldn't say for sure how she would react to a full dose of the Gene Hunt stare right now.

Without breaking eye-contact, Gene quirked a cheeky grin and winked at the girl, who promptly fumbled the shirt she had been folding and turned beet red.

Still grinning, he turned back to Alex, who had begun to empty the first dryer, and waggled his eyebrows. "I do believe you were right, Bolly. Anyone else eyeing me up this evening that I should know about?"

"You're incorrigible. I shouldn't have told you, I think your head just swelled two sizes."

The second dryer buzzed, and she threw him his duffle.

"Alright, time to match socks and fold, Casanova."

"'Bout time. I've been waitin' for the chance to fondle your unmentionables all evening."

She held up a clean but somewhat wrinkled white men's dress shirt from the load in her basket. _Speaking of fondling…_ "Do you even own an ironing board, Gene?"

"You know, I don't know if I do. Not intentionally, anyhow. Gene Hunt does not iron, at least, not since I finished National Service. They come back to me on hangers. Mrs. Williams does good work, starched collars and all. Not even the ex-wife did that."

"In that case, you're definitely _not_ paying her too much. In fact, you should probably give her a raise."

"Bollocks."

"This is going to require at least two more bottles of wine. Third dryer will be done soon. Empty them and bring it all up to my flat, we can sort and fold there, and I will re-introduce you to the wonders of a steam iron. You'll have to wait for Mrs. Williams for starched collars again, though."

"Want me all to yourself, eh? All you had to do was say so."

She flicked her head toward the recovering young blonde with a smirk. "Just doing my part to save an innocent young woman from your corrupting influence."

"Innocent, my arse."

_Your arse, indeed, _she sighed to herself._ Oh, this is such a bad idea._

The third dryer buzzed as she picked up her basket to head up to the flat. Gene leaned over to touch her arm as she brushed past him on her way to the door.

"Like I said," he murmured quietly, meeting her eyes with a look that once again left her breathless, "you're the boss here, Bolly."

"And don't you forget it, Gene."

He said nothing, only smiled slightly as his eyes flitted quickly over her face, down to her neck, shoulder and back up, where he held her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the dryers.

"I'll be up in a few."

She fled for the flat with as much dignity and poise as she could muster, laundry basket in tow, legs slightly wobbly from the flutter that was moving lower. How the hell did he do that? She was starting to think the man could charm the pants off the Old Handbag herself, if he put his mind to it.

What really scared her is that she suspected he wasn't even trying. _What the hell am I doing?_

Oh, God, she needed that drink.

* * *

Oh, God, he needed that drink.

If someone had told him 24 - no, make that _five_ - hours ago that he'd be spending a Friday evening with Alex Drake laughing like a pair of schoolkids and swapping stories while sitting on the floor of a self-serve laundry... well, let's just say this was pretty far down the list of likely activities. The woman was crazy. Certifiable. Nutjob basket-case posh gobby tart with a superiority complex and far too much brains for someone that gorgeous, let alone for someone who was licensed to carry a firearm. She was also funny, smart as a whip, and a damn fine copper.

He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything, except maybe making DCI. Maybe.

_And she is totally, utterly, completely out of your league, Genie-boy. Don't you forget it._

Half the time he was pretty sure she despised him. A quarter of the time she was ambivalent. But it was times like this, as he watched her wiggle out the door carrying her laundry basket, too-tight jeans and a shirt that fell off her shoulder and showed her bra strap - _Jesus, there should be a law against that, it is entirely unfair_ - that he almost thought... maybe. Just maybe.

He turned back to the dryer and began emptying it into the duffle, trying desperately to ignore the fact that several pair of her knickers were in this load. No bras, though. Shame.

_Why did you agree to this, you masochist?__ Mrs. Luckhurst was right all those years ago, you know._ You obviously love to torture yourself.

It could only end one way, he knew; him, at home, alone in the shower having a good Alex Drake-sized wank. Hopefully there would not be an Alex Drake-sized palm print on his face by then as well.

He sighed and moved on to the next dryer. When he opened the door and the heat hit his face, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. She used a different detergent than he was used to.

He smiled. His shirts were going to smell like Alex Drake for the next few days.


	4. Chapter 4

Alex pulled out the ironing board, then filled a spray bottle for steaming. That done, she took a minute to pour herself some wine and catch her breath. What exactly _was_ she doing? This was Gene Hunt she was playing with... or was he playing with her? She closed her eyes and recalled his brief look earlier. The one that made her mouth go dry and her legs wobble.

_Like a cat with a string, _she thought, _and I'm afraid I might be the string._

Looking out the window at the street below, she caught sight of him striding out of the laundrette, duffel slung over his shoulder, all denim legs and broad shoulders and dirty blonde hair. The minute he stepped out the door, he owned the street. The Manc Lion. Primal. Magnetic. He was... damn it, he was magnificent.

As she watched, the blonde from the laundrette also came out and caught up with him, getting his attention. With the window closed, she couldn't hear. She saw him smile and say something in reply, to which the girl leaned over and... Alex's hand shot up to her mouth. Oh now, _this_ could make for some _serious_ fun, she thought, laughing. The girl smiled shyly at Gene one last time and darted back inside, leaving him standing on the sidewalk looking a little taken aback. Shaking his head, he turned and proceeded across the street, as Alex ducked out of sight, still grinning.

* * *

She opened the door as he was coming up the stairs.

"Iron'll be ready to go in a few minutes. How about you start folding over there, and I'll start ironing your shirts."

Gene took in the the open bottle of wine on the coffee table and the glass in her hand. He nodded at the bottle. "You've gotten ahead of me, you lush. Can't 'ave that. Tell you what. I'll start folding these once I've caught up to you."

Twenty minutes and two glasses of red later, Gene began working his way through the basket of whites, placing the folded items into 'his' and 'hers' piles. There was definitely something to this ironing thing, he thought, as he watched her spritz one of his shirts and then run the iron over it with a hiss. Her hair had fallen into her face, and she was working up a bit of a sweat, putting some weight in to pressing out a particularly stubborn crease over the steamy hot ironing board.

_She's not the only one breakin' out in a sweat here, shit._

Alex looked up as he pulled a pair of boxers out of the basket.

"No tighty-whiteys, Gene?"

"The boys need room to breathe, Bols." Gene folded a pair of plain white cotton undies next and placed it in her pile. "Now see, I thought your knickers would be... fancier. Lacey little things. Like the ones you were wearin' when I stamped your arse."

She rolled her eyes. "Some of them are. But I don't wear the fancy ones every day."

"There goes my fantasy, then." An image of her bent over a desk, yelling at him to stamp her arse with all of CID watching flashed through his mind. A thought occurred to him and his eyes narrowed. He smirked.

"So, you decided to dress up a bit the day you had your bum stamped. Could it be you were _anticipating_ showing off your fancy knickers that day?"

Perhaps it was from standing over the ironing board, but it looked to him like she flushed a little pinker.

"That was purely coincidence. I had no idea you were going to insist on actually _doing_ it."

He looked smug. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

"Shakespeare does not give you an automatic win, Gene, no matter how accurately quoted."

"Whatever you say, Flash Knickers."

They continued in silence for a few minutes, Alex humming along to the radio, until...

"Aha!" Gene was positively triumphant.

"Oh, for God's sake..."

"You actually _wear_ these, woman? Why bother wearing anything at all?"

She put down the iron and was in front of him in a second, snatching the pair of lacy white knickers from him. "If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know the answer."

He snorted. "'Course, I still haven't gotten hold of one of your bras, so I still don't know your cup size. Bet you pulled them out of the laundry tonight before I got here just to torture me."

"Good bras are expensive, Gene. Handwash only. Matching knickers also get special treatment, washed at the same time. Otherwise they don't match for long."

He shook his head. "I will never understand birds. You think men _care _if your knickers are a shade lighter than your bra? All we care about is whether the bra's front or back hook and if we'll get shit for ruining the knickers when we tear 'em off!"

A pair of matched, balled-up socks bounced off his head.

"Hey!"

"That's it, you've lost your knicker-fondling privileges. Your turn to iron your bloody shirts, I'm folding."

He sighed heavily. "I hate ironing, Bolly. I'd rather steam press me knackers to the bleedin' sidewalk." _Not to mention; sweat running down between her tits gives me the 'orn._

"I'm the boss here, remember?"

"I'm startin' to regret that."

* * *

_OK, **this** is something I never expected to see. Ever. This is... wow._

For the last ten minutes, Alex had been sneaking glances over at Gene as he stood at the ironing board, a pouting, petulant picture of pure domesticity. He finished a shirt and lifted it up, flicking it out with a flourish and eyeing it critically before putting it on a hanger.

"Gene."

"What?"

"You're pouting."

"Am not."

"You are."

"Not."

"Oh, for pity's sake."

She stood and went to the kitchen, returning with a fresh bottle of wine.

"Break time. I'm entirely too sober."

"Now that's an order I can follow... Boss_._" He put down the iron and flopped onto the couch, picking up the corkscrew from the table and motioning, hand out, for her to pass him the bottle.

She leaned over to hand it to him, but suddenly stopped and pulled back, looking at his outstretched arm.

"What's that on your arm?"

"Nothing, it's... Oy! Bugger off, woman!" Alex had grabbed his wrist and gotten a good look before he pulled away. A phone number and a name: Ellen.

She broke into hysterical giggles. "Oh my God, you got her number? Have you no shame? How old was she, _maybe_ twenty?"

"Oh, stuff it, you nosy mare. She followed me out the door on the way up here and wrote it on me arm before I could get away. Sweet girl, I wasn't about to be a bastard. Took guts, that did. I appreciate that in a woman."

"Uh huh. Not so innocent, then, you certainly had that right."

"Hey, I have a strict look-but-no-touch policy if they even _look_ a day under 25. Not going to happen."

"Relax, Gene, I'm teasing."

"Sure you're not just jealous?"

"Hardly."

There was silence for a moment, and she finally broke down.

"Besides, I saw the whole thing out the window."

"You... cheeky... oh, you are asking for it now!" At that, he grabbed the three nearest rolled pairs of socks. A few well-aimed shots later and two of the three pairs had made contact with her backside before she could duck for cover behind the end of the couch, squealing with laughter.

"Oh, no you don't, you sneaky cow. Teach you to spy on me, woman." He was now armed with a large bath towel, which he began twirling into a long roll as he stalked around the couch. She was still giggling when he cracked the towel like a whip around the corner, and she shrieked, coming out with her hands up, still holding the wine bottle.

"I give! I surrender!"

"Hah. Good girl. As the victor, I declare that you get to iron again, and I regain my fondling— er, _folding _privileges." His smile was simultaneously infuriating and adorable.

"After more wine," she countered, holding up the wine as a peace offering.

"Thought that was understood, Bols. Now give." He held out his hand, which she took, and he pulled her to her feet. Not releasing her, he retrieved the corkscrew again. "You've got somethin' there that needs seeing to, I think."

She met his eyes, and this time, she didn't look away.

"It seems I do."

He released her hand and reached, slowly, to take the wine bottle from her, never breaking eye contact.

"I'll see to that then, shall I?" His voice was quiet as his hand closed around the bottle just below hers, and she let go of it.

It wasn't until he stepped back and looked away, turning his attention to opening the bottle, that she let out the breath she'd been holding.

_Cat: one, string: zero._


	5. Chapter 5

The bottle was almost empty, but instead of facing more ironing right away, Alex broke out some cheese and a loaf of french bread, declaring that she was starving. Gene had, predictably, rolled his eyes and made a crack about poncy posh bird food, but it didn't stop him from attacking the cheese like a starving man.

Alex was desperately trying to _not_ watch him lick his fingers clean, and failing spectacularly. Like a cat grooming, she thought._ Shit shit shit. No. Stop it, Alex._

Looking at him teasingly over the rim of her glass, she couldn't resist getting in one more dig. "So, you're not going to call her, then? She seemed like such a nice girl."

He swallowed a mouthful of cheese, polished off his wine in one gulp and leaned forward, arms on his legs, looking her straight in the eye with a look that she recognized from the interview room. "Do I have to break out my towel again and teach you another lesson, Detective Inspector?"

Her eyes went wide with feigned innocence. "Oh, no, please Mr. Occifer, Sir, I'll be good."

"Not sure I believe you."

"You probably shouldn't. Might want to make sure that's washed off your arm by Monday so I don't have to ask you about it in front of Ray."

"Don't even think about it, Bolly, or you might find some of your knickers in unexpected places."

"That is... entirely fair." She polished off the last of the cheese. "Did you want some more?"

"You know, I think you're just stallin' for time now. What's wrong, can't get enough of my company?"

She smiled and rested her head on her hand, relaxed, swirling the last bit of wine in the glass. "Like I said before, I'm rather enjoying myself this evening, Gene."

He once again held her gaze for a moment. Then, much like he had earlier, his glance drifted briefly down over her neck, along her arm to the hand still holding her wine glass before looking back up into her eyes. _Christ, his eyes are gorgeous,_ she realized, not for the first time that evening. _Those eyelashes are... completely unfair._

To her surprise, then, he reached out and lightly ran his fingers along her hand holding the glass. The effect was electric. Her breath caught. She couldn't look away.

"Well, as enjoyable as this is..." He was speaking softly, not breaking eye contact. It didn't occur to her that he had taken the wine glass from her hand until he leaned back and downed the last mouthful of her wine, then broke into a shit-eating grin.

"...I wouldn't mind seeing you sweat over me shirts a little more."

"You cheeky bastard!"

She tried shooting him a look of death, but found she couldn't hold it in the face of his smile. She acquiesced, throwing up her hands in defeat.

"Fine. But I'm still the boss. Get back to folding, you."

He barked a laugh and held out his hand, which she took, and pulled her to her feet.

"Yeah, yeah. Go on now, mush, woman. My ironing awaits. I have a rolled up towel, and I'm not afraid to use it."

* * *

She'd cleaned up the crumbs from their snack, broken out yet another bottle of red for herself and some beer for Gene, and returned to the ironing while Gene continued folding. The radio was playing, and the conversation had hit a peaceful lull. She found herself mesmerized watching him. Long fingers, taking care to fold her black and white jumper very precisely. Such graceful hands for such a rough man.

Even though the radio was playing quietly, the lack of conversation was almost deafening, threatening to drive her crazy.

"Maybe I should get a cat," she blurted suddenly.

"Huh?"

"You know, a cat? A pet?"

"And where did this particular thread of conversation come from, exactly? Your mind is a wonder, Bols."

She was sure she was blushing furiously at this point. The primary reason her mind had been focussed on feline metaphors was sitting on her floor, surrounded by mostly-folded piles of laundry. She sighed and gave up. _Might as well go with it. _"When I was growing up, my parents wouldn't abide an animal in the house. Pe—... my husband and I got a cat when we were first married, but then when I had Molly, she had allergies and asthma, so we had to find the cat another home. Some friends adopted her. But I've been thinking of getting a cat here. For company."

"We had a cat when I was growin' up. Mean old tom. Had to respect 'im, though. Most cats are two-faced little bastards, all purring and circlin' your ankles one minute, then like to claw your face off the next, but you always knew where you stood with Old Tom. Hated everyone, he did. Good mouser, too."

She shook her head, amused, and guessing that was probably the highest praise Gene had given any cat. "Any other... er... 'pets'?"

"Nah. Always wanted a dog, really, but the wife wouldn't have it. I like dogs. Obedient. Trainable. Man's best friend and all that bollocks."

She snorted. "Sniffing each other's arses, hanging out in packs, drooling, generally making a lot of noise... so the Manc Lion is really a dog person at heart. You do realize this gives me more than enough to work up a very interesting psych profile of you."

He gave a pillowcase a sharp snap in the air and proceeded to fold it with military precision. "You know, the more I talk to you, the more I think you have to be a complete perv to be a psychologist."

"It's psychol— Oh."

Gene flicked out another pillowcase, looking very smug indeed.

* * *

"All right, I think that's the last of it."

His pressed shirts were on hangers and packed in an old garment bag she'd found in the closet. The rest of his folded things were packed back in the duffle.

He looked around at the ironing board, beer bottles and several piles of her folded clothes. "Need a hand cleaning the rest of this up?" He picked up a pile of clothes and held them out to her.

"Thanks, but that's fine. I'll put these away later." She took a step closer, but made no move to take the pile from him.

"Right, so... I'll be off, then."

"'Kay. See you Monday." She took another step toward him and reached out to take the pile of folded clothes.

"We should do this again sometime, Bols. Next time Mrs. Williams, you know, needs a vacation."

"I still say you should give her a raise," she said with a smile.

"You don't even know what I pay her."

"Doesn't matter."

"I'll think about it."

"Good. You'll need to let go of these if you want me to take them from you, you know."

He let go of the pile that he didn't realize he was still holding.

"And remember to wash that off your arm," she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. "I won't be responsible for my actions if it's still there Monday morning."

"In that case," he replied, smoothly snatching a pair of panties from the top of the pile and twirling them on one finger with a look of pure evil, "I'll just be takin' one of these for collateral."

"Don't you even think about it!" She made a quick grab for the panties, but missed, nearly falling over as well as fumbling the folded pile she'd just taken from him. Gene deftly caught her arm as well as the pile spilling out of her grasp before they both went over. He steadied her on her feet and dropped the panties into her hands with a smile.

"Bloody woman, tryin' to undo all my hard work."

She pushed her hair from her face, now standing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

"Why are we still doing this, Gene? This dance?"

"Not sure what you mean. Gene Hunt does not dance."

They were close. Close enough that he could smell her. She smelled like... he had no idea what that was. Must be some posh shampoo. _Nice, though. No. Stop right there. She's not interested, made that clear many times. She's just lonely, being nice, offerin' company to make a boring chore more enjoyable. Right? Right._

"No, certainly not. But there was a time..." She waved the panties he'd just threatened her with between them. "...when inviting you up to my flat to fondle my knickers would have been a sure thing."

He blinked, eyebrows shooting up. _Then again... _"Sure thing?" He regarded her for a second. A joke, that's all it was. He feigned innocence. "I'm offended, woman, that you would think I'm that easy. I'm many things, but I am not a tart."

She laughed, and took the pile of folded clothes from him again. Setting them down on the table, she turned back and, to his astonishment, reached over to gently touch his face, her fingers lightly brushing his sideburn. She'd done it before, and every time it took all his considerable willpower — well, and the fact that it was usually when she'd come close to buying it, unlike now — not to take her hand in his, turn his head and plant a kiss on her wrist. No. He needed to be sure.

"No, really, Gene. When did it change?" Her expression was serious. Her eyes softened. Her eyes... my god, he could lose himself in them. _Uh-oh._

"Don't know, Bols." He looked down, suddenly uncomfortable. "Maybe..." He fidgeted, brushing an imaginary hair from her shirt. This would have been the perfect time for a swig of whiskey. _Oh, sod it. _His eyes flicked back up to meet hers.

"Maybe a bloke can only stand to be put down by a bird so many times before he figures the ball's best left in her court."

He noticed the slight curve of a smile. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Okay."

It took him a moment to realize that she had closed the gap between them, and the warmth he felt was her lips on his.

Now that _was_ a surprise. So many fantasies on lonely nights since she'd landed in his kingdom, and they all went the same way; _he_ was the one who finally kissed _her_. Sometimes slow and gentle, sometimes fiery and physical, always passionate, in every scenario he was always the one who made that final move, closed those last couple inches.

For a split second, his mind whirled, but quickly settled on one undeniable fact. She was kissing him. And if he knew from kisses, which he liked to think he did, she meant it. Sweet and soft, yet with a firmness that was unambiguous. Jesus, she even tasted posh. _Wine and cheese. Delicious._ One hand settled lightly at her waist as he felt the gentle brush of her tongue against his lips once... twice... a third time before she pulled back and met his gaze, hand still resting against his face.

"Catch," she said softly.

He did not need to be told twice.


	6. Chapter 6

She knew she was lost the instant he recaptured her lips. He was smoke and fire and spice. Whiskey and want. Controlled desperation.

He had clearly been surprised at her boldness, and while he hadn't hesitated, he also wasn't charging in with the overwhelming ferocity she sometimes imagined of him. His playful, nipping, open-mouthed kisses were — not 'gentle', there was no question of the raw, desperate need simmering just beneath — but he was surprisingly restrained. She sensed he could have devoured her, forgetting himself and simply taking. She hazily realized she would have welcomed that, but this... this was something else. He was holding back, teasing her, testing her, hands, lips and tongue coaxing her to respond to him equally. Urging her to continue what she had started.

He didn't just want her, she realized. He needed to know that she wanted him.

_Stop analyzing it, Alex. __You're snogging Gene Hunt. _Oh, God, he's really good at this...

* * *

She was wine, warmth and comfort. Like slowly smouldering ashes that spark to life when you breathe on them. She knew what she wanted and she held back nothing. He could lose control with her so easily, take everything she gave - and he felt sure that she would give him everything she had, unconditionally. Did she know how dangerous it was to offer him that? He needed so much. Wanted so much...

_Hunt, you've got a gorgeous bird swoonin' here. Stop thinkin' so much, you git._

They came up for air to find that they had somehow, in the tangle of hands and kisses, made their way across the room to the couch. If he were judging by the hand on his arse and the other in his hair, she didn't seem to mind that he had landed partly on top of her. Still...

"Christ. Bolly. Hold up." He blinked a few times and caught his breath, then slapped his own cheek firmly.

Her eyebrows went up. "Gene?"

"Just checkin' to make sure I wasn't dreamin'."

Her laugh was musical. "You're not. But just in case, do you really want to question it and risk waking up?"

"Good point." He looked back at the path they had taken from the door to the couch. Piles of laundry, only just folded, had toppled over in their wake as they had clumsily crossed the room.

"Looks like we'll have to fold those again," she said, reading his mind. "You might be stuck here for a while. You know, I'm a little surprised you didn't just pull me down to the floor and have your way with me in a pile of freshly-laundered towels."

"There's always next time," he replied cheekily. "I did manage to unhook your bra... 'course, how you got it off with one hand on me arse and without taking off your shirt is still a mystery."

"A woman's got to have her secrets." She ran a hand up his chest. "I like this jumper. Very... cuddly."

"I am not 'cuddly.'"

"Beg to differ. The Cuddly Manc Lion. We might have to add that to your door."

"Over my dead northern arse. A man's got to have some secrets himself."

She gripped his arse firmly through the denim and then gave it pat. "Speaking of which, you should wear jeans more often, Gene. Nice change from your normal."

"And just what is wrong with my normal?"

"Oh, absolutely nothing. Starched collars and cufflinks with cowboy boots. Spit and polish, with a touch of rough around the edges. Makes for a deliciously shaggable combination." Her hand had snaked further into his hair and she was pulling him back down to her.

For a moment, he thought his heart would stop. She didn't really just say... _play it cool, Gene. _He stopped just short of her lips, eyebrows raised. "On a second date? Upstairs inside only. Just what kind of a tart do you take me for, Bols? Me mam warned me about girls like you."

She smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "And just what did she say about 'girls like me'?"

"You're dangerous, you are. Too smart for your own good." His voice had dropped to a quiet rumble, and he found he once again had to force himself to look her directly into her eyes and say something that scared him more than he wanted to admit. "Could be you're after a bit of rough for some fun."

Her gaze softened a little. "I've learned to appreciate a little rough and tumble, especially the kind that cleans up well and knows when to apply the spit and polish."

"You're daft, woman."

"I've had posh. It never lives up to the hype." She leaned in to him, lips brushing against his prickly cheek as she whispered. "I want _you_, Gene Hunt. All of you. Or as much as you'll give me."

"Well, you're just full of surprises today."

"Mmmmm. And _you_ taste amazing." She nibbled kisses along his jawline back to his lips before pausing. "Last chance to escape and call the young blonde..."

He opened one eye to meet her naughty look with mock surprise. "Why, d'you think she'd want to join us? Knew you had a filthy mind, but I never imagined... ow!"

"Don't make me smack your arse again, Gene, I might start to enjoy it."

"You _are_ a perv, Bolly. You appear to have a definite fixation on my backside."

She looked downright smug. "Well, it is a very nice backside that, until tonight, I have only ever seen in dress trousers. Besides, you've had a fixation on my tits since the day we met. Think of it as 'tit for tat'."

That drew a real laugh from him. "Whatever you say, Boss Knickers. Right, where were we? Ah, yeah, snoggin' like teenagers. Think there needs to be more of that, then."

Whatever remnants of the flutter from earlier in the evening that hadn't already firmly planted itself in her knickers took this as a cue to regroup, focus and join up with their brethren into what was now a solid burn. "And groping. Don't forget the groping."

"Not a chance." His hand slipped beneath her shirt to cup a breast as his lips descended to her neck. "Besides, it's me favourite bit." She wiggled beneath him and a long leg wrapped around his waist. "Well. Maybe second favourite."

"You have amazing hands, you know. I think one of them was... ooooh, yes, right about... there..."

"Stop talking now, Alex."

Her eyes fluttered closed and she moaned softly as he teased a nipple.

"Better."

* * *

An hour later, and the alcohol and long day had finally caught up with them both. Surprisingly, they were both still clothed. Their earlier fire at each other's touch had given way to the warm comfort of continued gentle contact. Gene was now comfortably lying with his head against her chest, eyes closed, hands idly tracing circles on her belly. She brushed a stubborn lock of hair from his forehead and he lifted his head, blinking up at her sleepily. God help her, those eyelashes would be her undoing._ Would be? Too late._

"We both know I should go, Bols."

"And we both know you don't want to."

"Couldn't deny that if I tried. Not the point." He had disentangled himself and was standing up. Gracefully, she noticed. Such long legs. Such long, fit... _stopitstopitstopit, Alex... concentrate._ Taking her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet.

"_I _don't want you to go, Gene."

He leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Glad to 'ear it. But if I stay now, it'll still only be our second date, and bein' a gentleman and all, I have to stick to upstairs inside."

She laughed. "Seriously? Gene, we're..." She stopped when she saw expression.

"Can't have a third date until the second one ends, luv. 'Sides, I'm tired enough, I don't trust meself not to sleepwalk right into your bed, and if that happens... well, let's just say some things are, er... _harder_ for me than they are for you." His eyes were dancing.

"I should certainly hope so," she replied with a wicked smile, hands on his chest. She looked up at him, tilting her head to the side to study him for a moment. _Oh, God, those eyes. Yes, Gene, whatever you say, Gene_. "You _are _serious, aren't you?"

He ran his thumb over her lower lip and smiled. "Trust me, Bols," he whispered. "This is worth the wait."

She kissed him gently on the cheek. "That's... that's actually rather sweet."

"Guess I'm still old-fashioned sometimes. Don't you dare tell. Don't want to ruin my image."

"My lips are sealed, you sweet old dinosaur, you."

"Didn't feel like it to me." He pulled her close for one more warm, lingering kiss, then maneuvered his way back across the room around the piles of laundry and picked up his duffle. She leaned against the wall and watched him, all legs and arms and deliciously disheveled hair. Damn, this was going to be a long night. She yawned, suddenly exhausted. Okay, maybe not that long. He turned back to her, framed in the doorway.

"Not plannin' to go out anywhere later, are you? I know you're a modern woman and all, and you were quite... eager. Wouldn't want you looking elsewhere for some action out of frustration."

She smiled sleepily. "No, you nosy, chauvinist bastard. I'm staying here. I'm on a promise, and I hear he's worth the wait."

He winked at her with a look that set her insides churning once more, and then he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

_Yes, this fic still lives. There's probably a couple more chapters in it. Updates will continue to be sporadic, but will happen eventually. The muse is a fickle mistress. Rating going up now because they have dirty minds._

* * *

Gene threw the duffle into the back of the Quattro and slid in behind the wheel, but didn't start the engine. Instead, he lit a fag, leaned back, closed his eyes and played over the last couple hours in his booze-addled, sleep-deprived mind.

Holy Hellfire.

This was absolutely, positively, the _last_ position he'd expected to be in this evening. Although, the more he thought about it, maybe that wasn't entirely true. He realized ruefully that he was indeed headed off for what he suspected would be a good Alex Drake-sized wank in the comfort of his own home, and he very likely did have an Alex Drake-sized palm print on his cheek. Just not the cheek he thought it would be on. He rubbed his left buttock. Damn, that had stung a little.

He'd only been half-truthful with her just now. He _was_ tired, yes, but not so tired he couldn't have found the energy for a quick tumble. Problem was, "quick" is exactly what it would have been. That would simply not do. Not at all. As much as it had been a wrench to play the 'gentleman' card and leave her on a promise, he knew in his current state the alternative would probably not have gotten him invited back for seconds. After the taste he'd just gotten, he wanted the whole damn buffet.

To say that he would be going from famine to feast would be the understatement of the year. Despite the image he preferred to project, he hadn't even made much use of the services of the world's oldest profession since he'd moved south — and London had a fine selection, especially for someone with a Met warrant card. No, after the transfer, he'd thrown himself into work and managed, with reasonable success, to dull the rest of the ache with drink. When it came to God's most troublesome, incomprehensible creatures, he'd tried not to let his mind wander too far too often. It was easier that way. Besides, booze and his own right hand were cheaper and didn't talk back.

Then she'd shown up. Alex Bloody Drake. She'd thrown him head over tit from that first swoon, and before he'd known it, she'd had him wrapped around her finger tighter than a virgin's arse. She was once in a million years, that woman. Even knowing full well he'd never have her, he'd still have kneed God himself in the knackers for her just to get close enough to imagine it. And now, by some stroke of luck utterly beyond his comprehension, it appeared he'd pulled the bird of a lifetime.

Women. Absolutely bloody baffling.

What he needed right now was to screw his head back on, work off some of this built-up tension, and then... he tossed the half-smoked fag out the window with a grunt and started the car. A plan was taking shape, and he had two stops to make on the way home.

Christ, the things he did for that woman.

* * *

Alex was trying to sleep, and failing spectacularly. The entire evening played on a continuous loop. Gene, wet hair, unshaven, denim-casual and completely shaggable, striding through the door of the laundrette and then proceeding to charm her as though he'd studied under a master. It was the booze, that had to be it. It was the booze, and his overall relaxed demeanor all evening. And the way he'd laughed so easily with her. And his eyes.

_So this really is entirely his fault. I am in no way to blame._

Badgering him to talk to her. How he'd taken her teasing about the blonde. How he'd pouted at the ironing board, but still done as she said, and then managed to get his way in the end anyhow. How he tasted when she'd... _oh God, I kissed him. __**I**__ kissed __**him**__! _Just the thought of it was enough to make her flush.

_So, OK, maybe I need to take some of the blame. Guess I can live with that._

Eyes closed, body tingling at the memory, a fresh surge of want washed over her. She thought of his hands, and one of her own drifted to her breast. His fingers, so long and graceful, toying with her. Mouth nipping, testing, teasing her.

"Mmmmm, Gene..."

She imagined those talented fingers; lost in her own world that was so much better, so much more intense now that she knew how those hands and mouth felt on her skin; now that she could finally acknowledge how much she wanted him.

She worked expertly, slowly until there was no choice but to speed up; harder now, eyes still closed, picturing him. A strong arm wrapped around her, a hand at her breasts, mouth buried in her neck, nipping, biting, murmuring delicious, gravelly invectives. _Naughty tart_, she heard in his voice_. You love this, don't you? Such a filthy little mare, gettin' yourself worked up just thinking about me..._

"Oh, hell... Shit! Gene... Yes!" Almost before she realized how close she was, she was gone, gasping, swearing, hips arched firmly against her hand, completely lost in thoughts of him. The intensity of it was shocking, and as she came down, sweating, breathless and panting, she was briefly embarrassed at the revelation of how desperately and roughly she wanted him, how thoroughly she wanted to be possessed by him. That was quickly replaced by the delicious realization that if he was even half as good as her imagination, she'd be spoiled for other men for the rest of her life. Her last thought, before the warmth of sleep finally closed in, was that now she might have a chance of keeping her hands to herself the next moment she saw him. Maybe.

* * *

He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually slept in his bed, and he wasn't likely to start tonight.

Gene sank back into his comfy chair with a sigh. It was well-used, and the one bit of homeiness in the otherwise dismally impersonal flat. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he didn't spend much time there. Since Mrs. Williams hadn't been in to clean for the last couple weeks, there was a thin but visible layer of dust on most surfaces.

All he could think of was _her_. Lips. Eyes. Tits. Legs. Hands in his hair, hands on his arse, hands reaching for his fly... he still couldn't believe he'd managed to pull himself up off of her and go, but it had been a brutal week, and before he could do justice to a good shag with any hope of a repeat performance, he needed a nap. Now that he was here, though, he couldn't sleep for anything, and the more he thought about what he'd just left...

Well, there really was nothing for it. Normally he'd take care of business quick-like and get it over with, but now— _Take your time, Genie-boy,_ he thought as he closed his eyes, bit his lip in concentration and took to the task at hand. _She wants you. Enjoy this for tonight. Gorgeous little minx is one hell of a kisser, excellent use of the tongue and hands. Shows promise. Firm. Not afraid to take charge._

"Ah, fuck... Alex... want you..."

Before long he was perfectly lost in the moment, mind swirling in the utter bliss of memories of her skin, her smell, her taste. What would those lips feel like? Warm. Wet. Tongue teasing... and her tits? God, yes, her tits. Perfect. And her hands and... his head fell back with a sigh.

It didn't take long before he let out a groan of satisfaction, her name on his lips, and quickly descended into the welcome comfort of relaxed, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Knocking. Someone was knocking.

Alex groggily tried to read the time. 3am. Really? _Someone better be dead,_ she thought,_ otherwise they soon will be._

The knocking continued as she wrapped a dressing gown around herself and made her way to the door, picking her way around the still-toppled piles of laundry. She flushed at the memory of she and Gene wrapped around each other earlier, fumbling across the room to the couch. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself, put on a face of annoyance at being woken in the middle of the night, and opened the door.

It was the memory himself, in the stunningly substantial flesh.

"Long time no see."

She was instantly awake. "Is something wrong? Was there a call, or...?"

"Relax, Bols. No case, nothing's wrong. I just reckoned you need to be kept on your toes, that's all. Got any plans for this eve- er, morning?"

Now that she was slightly more awake, she noticed he was still dressed casually, in jeans. He'd changed his shirt, though. It looked like linen. Light blue. Slightly rumpled and probably fresh from the laundry they'd just done. Top few buttons undone. Oh, God, his chest was so... smooth...

She shook her head slightly to clear it and regarded him for another few seconds, trying to decide whether to keep up the pretense of anger at being woken. Like a teenager who knew he was in trouble for coming home after curfew, he seemed to be having trouble meeting her gaze directly. Ten seconds of him looking at her warily through those fluttering eyelashes and she melted into a puddle of goo. _OK, I'll bite. Infuriating man. _"Well, I do have some laundry to fold. Re-fold. Care to help?"

"Hmmm. Maybe later." He stuffed one hand in his pocket and fidgeted with the keys to the Quattro in the other. "I was thinking more of a bit of all-night brekkie. You and me. Somewhere, er... less-than-swanky, I'm guessin', since the only places open right now are dives."

"Gene, it's three in the morning!"

"Yeah." He had the good graces to look at least a little bit embarrassed as he looked down and shuffled from one foot to the other. She let him stew for a moment – it was only fair, after all, given the hour – before stepping a bit closer to him.

"So, would this be a new date, then?"

"Could be." Those shockingly gorgeous eyes once again nearly knocked the wind from her. She moved even closer, so close that she was pressing up against him, and lightly rested her hands on his chest.

"Like maybe a third date?"

Holding her gaze now, both hands were in his pockets as he tried to keep up the facade of cool confidence. The corners of his mouth twitched up, giving away a slight smile.

"Somethin' like that, yeah."

"I'll get my coat." She paused for dramatic effect. "And maybe put on some clothes."

"If you insist. There's a very nice, low-cut jumper on the floor over there that I'm quite fond of," he smirked, "and the fancy knickers are on the coffee table pile."

"I knew letting you fondle my clothes was a bad idea."

"Very bad idea, Bols. Now mush, woman, my arteries need hardening..."

She raised an eyebrow, knowing there was a punchline coming.

"...among other things."


	8. Chapter 8

_Well, look at that — a little over a full year since the last update, but it seems there's still some life in this naughty little number yet. Besides, if Wombledon can manage an update to a great story after 2 years __(go read "A Town Called Alex", OK? I tried linking it and this thing isn't behaving!)_, maybe I should have a go too, yeah?  


_Right, so when we last left them, Gene had... oh, just go back and re-read the last chapter or seven, that's what I had to do.  
_

* * *

"You're still not going to tell me where we're going?"

Gene lit up while he waited for the light to change. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "Don't think I will, no."

"You're infuriating."

"So I've been told."

"And you're a complete arse."

"I believe we recently established my arse was one of your favourite features, no?"

"Well, there had to be _some_ incentive for me to get dressed and into the car with you at this hour."

The light changed and he shifted gears, tearing through the empty intersection like the hounds of hell were on their tail. Alex let out a shriek and he glanced over at her. She'd worn the low-cut jumper, of course.

"Might want to grab hold of something, Bols. I'd offer my arse, but I'll be needing it over here for a bit yet."

"Eyes on the road, please. My tits will still be here when we arrive at... wherever the hell you're taking us."

Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds, and more ignored traffic signs than she cared to count later, the Quattro skidded to a halt, landing almost-neatly in an almost-legal parking space, outside a diner that could almost pass for open.

* * *

"Why am I not surprised that you know the only three places on this side of town that serve a full English at this hour? You're a bloodhound, Gene."

"Also undeniably true."

As per his prediction, the only places open for all-night brekkie were dimly lit, cheap and greasy. This one was greasier than most. Alex enjoyed watching Gene dive into his beans like a starving man, mentally ticking off her list of all the reasons why this was still such a completely bad idea.

"You know, just because men call you a bird doesn't mean you need to eat like one."

"Charming as ever." She took another bite of toast, swirled her tea in the cup and looked at him slyly over the rim. "I didn't come along for the food, you know."

"No?" He polished off the last of his black pudding, planted his elbows on the table, and slowly licked a bit of sauce from a finger. Then another. He picked up his mug and met her eyes. She was watching him behind her tea, one eyebrow arched in apparent amusement.

"What?"

"You may insist you're not a tart, Gene, but you are one hell of a tease."

"I beg your pardon."

"You refuse to take advantage of me earlier _despite_ my repeated requests to the contrary..."

"Mmm, yeah. That was surprisingly forward of you. I could get to like that."

"...only to show up at my door five hours later for a 'third date' in which you whisk me out into public where we have to behave ourselves." His eyes narrowed at the air quotes. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're dragging this out. Tease."

"Huh." He took another swig of tea. "Well when you put it that way, guess I'm guilty as charged."

She couldn't quite manage to keep her face entirely devoid of smugness. "_And_ you are suspiciously agreeable tonight. Anyone who knew you might think you were plotting something."

"Never know with me," he retorted amiably. "Deeply mysterious, remember?" She snorted a laugh. "Of course," he leaned across the table toward her, closer, "I could just be testing a theory."

"A theory?" Her stomach did a little flip under his unflinching gaze. "Okay, I can play. Tell me your theory."

"All in good time, Luv." His eyes were devouring her. "So, you managed to catch a few winks, then?"

_He's doing that... that... **thing** again. Where he sucks you in and... Damn him!_ Alex steeled her features to try and keep from giving away too much. If they were going to play this out, she was going to make him work for it. "Mmmm. Didn't fall asleep as fast as a I'd hoped, though. Too distracted."

"Oh?"

She became vaguely aware that he had started tracing a light pattern on the back of her hand, but still he never looked away. She felt the warm flush creeping up to her face. _Stopitstopit, Alex..._ "Well, I had some built-up tension I had to work off first."

"Did you now."

"Mmmmm."

"Tell me."

"Right now?"

"Storytime Round Two, Bols. You brought it up, so go on, tell me what you did after I left last night. In detail." He leaned over the table and his lips nearly tickled her ear, thumb continuing to trace over her hand. "It's just us," he murmured, in a tone that she suspected was designed to melt knickers in three syllables or less. "No one else here right now."

She looked around the restaurant. True enough, they were alone. Even the waitress had buggered off to the back. The short-order cook was nowhere to be seen, probably out lighting up in the alley. Or over the grill, which would explain the strange flavour to her toast.

"I didn't bring us here because they had the best food, you know. Point of fact, nine out of ten night-owls and pub-crawlers agree it's the worst, so we have the place to ourselves." He leaned back and picked up his tea again. "Go on, now. Tell the Gene Genie your bedtime story."

"You complete, utter bastard," she said, a little breathless. "I'm impressed. You're not just any tease, you're a _master_ tease."

"Yes, I am, thank you for noticing. I'd like to say I came by it naturally, and I know it's a shock to learn that I wasn't always this silver-tongued, but in truth it's a skill that took me years to perfect."

"Well I, for one, am relieved to see you use your powers for good."

He looked away briefly with a smile that on anyone else might be described as coy before pinning her down with his level gaze. "Come on now, I'm waiting. After I left, what did you do? Don't leave out a single thing."

She sat up a little straighter and composed herself. _He asked for it._ "Okay, then. After you left, I put on my pyjamas and went to bed..."

"That black satin set I folded earlier?"

"Yes, the black satin. But I couldn't seem to fall asleep. I... I..." She took a deep breath. "This is surprisingly hard."

"It's not the only thing," he noted.

"Really?" She slipped a shoe off under the table. "Hmmm."

"Black satin..." he prompted.

"...and not able to fall asleep," she continued.

"Something about 'built-up tension', you mentioned."

"Quite a bit, yes." Under the table, her shoeless foot sought out... _ah, there._ She slowly began running her foot up his leg. "And I find the best way to deal with being that tense is a good, firm rub down."

"Firm, you say?" He adopted what he felt was his best poker face as her foot reached his thigh, but he knew it was going to become more difficult by the inch. She was still moving upward. Slowly. "How firm are we talking here?"

"Very firm. Have to work out all the... kinks." She pressed her toes somewhat more solidly into his upper thigh, and his eyes flicked down to his lap quickly and back up again.

"Got a lot of those, do you?" he deadpanned. "Kinks?"

"A few. But I know _exactly_ how to deal with them." She blinked demurely, and just as she was about to move up the last couple inches, Gene grabbed her foot under the table.

"Nope, not yet, Bolly. No playing footie with the goods until you've had a taste of your own medicine." He tickled the bottom of her foot and she let out a yelp, pulling it back out of his hand.

"Okay, then, your turn. What did you do after you left?"

He put an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. "I got home, flopped down in my comfy chair, closed me eyes..." His voice dropped to a low growl as he leaned slightly forward. "...and all I could think about was your lips and your tits."

She smiled. "Good to know you have your priorities."

"Oh yeah. Tits. Lips." He reached up to her face and his thumb traced lightly along her jaw to her mouth. She closed her eyes and leaned slightly into his touch as he continued, more quietly, "and how both of them would feel wrapped arou—"

Her breath caught and her eyes flew open. "Oh, God, you're killing me here."

"Good. Consider this payback for all the times you've waltzed around the office in short skirts."

"Bastard," she panted.

"And loving it."

She put on a pout, leaning in to say archly, "And just what makes you think I'd be willing to—"

He caught her hand as her finger wagged in front of him, interrupting her with a wicked, narrow-eyed smirk. "You didn't slap me for suggesting it."

Her mock-pout became a smile. She leaned back and picked up her nearly-empty cup of tea.

"So," she asked as innocuously as she could manage, "just how _are_ your... arteries?"

"Definitely getting harder by the minute."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Because my tea is cold. I'm going to need something to warm me up."

He pulled out his wallet, retrieved some cash, threw it down on the table and stood up, holding out his hand to her. "In that case, get your shoes back on, woman. I know just the place." He pulled her to her feet just as the waitress burst out through the kitchen doors.

"Yeah?" the weathered woman called out loudly, kitchenward, "Well next time don't leave it hangin' out if you don't wanna chance it catchin' fire!"

They looked as one at the waitress, and then back to one other. "And would you believe," he said, "that it's even posher than here?"


End file.
